


Symbiosis

by Taliya



Series: Exposure [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canonical Character Death, Cross-Generational Friendship, Developing Friendships, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Parent-Child Relationship, Self-Hatred, Spoilers, Survivor Guilt, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8223652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taliya/pseuds/Taliya
Summary: Guilt-ridden by his responsibility regarding the death of a friend, Edward finds someone affected by that same loss in more need of comfort than himself. Drunk Roy. Parental Roy-Ed-ish. Major spoilers for manga/both anime, rated for both Roy and Ed's mouths. Companion piece to "Miniature Adults".





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fullmetal Alchemist characters, settings, and ideas belong not to me but to Arakawa Hiromu.

_Autumn of 1914_

A cool evening breeze slithered through the streets, and he unconsciously pulled the thin red jacket closer about his person. His automail ports protested slightly in the mild chill, reminding him that he should seek warmth soon if he did not want to have two lasting aches come morning. The lights from the restaurants that lined the streets lit the dusky gloom, splashing squares of light onto the windswept pavement. Laughter spilled from the open doors and windows, and he idly glanced into these pockets of frivolity as he passed them en route to Central Command.

Alphonse was still in the library, working unsuccessfully to focus on their research for the Philosopher’s Stone, but Edward had needed a respite from the hunt. His younger brother had known that his older brother needed the space, and while he feared that the Ishvalan Scar was still after Edward, Alphonse gave his older brother the privacy he needed to grieve. His heart clenched painfully at the thought that Maes Hughes was dead, and he grimaced as he fought not to cry. As it was, his eyes felt gritty and his tongue too dry—he felt as though his entire body did not have enough liquid contained within to produce tears. His thoughts, normally a whirling vortex of activity, felt frozen and desolate as a winter wasteland.

 _He died because of us._ The single idea refused to leave him alone, circling endlessly in his mind in haunting refrain. _He would still be alive if he hadn’t gotten involved with us._ The guilt was unmercifully crushing with its truth, and it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other as he shouldered the burden. Snapshots in time of the lieutenant colonel marched across the projector screen of his mind, forcing him to recollect the man’s kindness, loyalty, and generosity, his humor, curiosity, and intelligence. _It’s my fault. Again. First Al, then Nina, and now Hughes. How many times must someone else pay the price because I fucked up?_

Gradually the more occupied restaurants gave way to smaller, grubbier bars, and the flash of military blue within one of the bars caught his eye. He paused, studying the soldier, taking in the white button up and cobalt pants, the decorated coat hanging unceremoniously on the low back of the barstool. Perched atop the stool, he leaned heavily on the countertop, head propped up by his arms. His upper face was covered by gloved hands with fingers that were buried in his hair, making identification difficult, and the black hair bristled as though having been carded through one too many times. The man’s posture conveyed a wealth of misery and self-loathing, and the half-empty tumbler of amber liquid before him indicated that he was trying to drink his sorrows away. While the blond would normally have dismissed the man after a glance, this particular man kept his attention due to one small but significant detail: the finely stitched crimson array on the back of his glove.

“Mustang…?” he murmured, interest flickering in the void of his mind as dull aureate eyes glimmered with curiosity. He stood, unheeding of the brisk wind, watching as the man unfurled a hand to grasp the squat glass of his poison of choice, revealing the sharp profile of his face. Even in the yellowish lights of the bar, his face was pallid, smudged with a grey bruise under a bloodshot eye. His hand brought the tumbler to his lips and he knocked back the rest of the liquor in one gulp. He set the glass down on the distressed wood of the bar top, his elbows sliding forward as though his arms could no longer support his upper body, and he collapsed onto the tabletop, face once again hidden behind his arms.

Edward watched, astounded as the man’s torso slightly hitched periodically. He crept closer to the entrance of the bar, observing as the bartender eased the glass out of the colonel’s hand with a sympathetic expression. No doubt he had been the spectator of many a soldier’s grieving for a lost comrade in arms, for he said not a word and simply filled another tumbler alongside with a tall glass of water. Mustang’s now empty fingers clenched into a tight fist, pulling the embroidery of the array taut against the back of his hand.

The young Alchemist eased his way into the bar, the hour too early for the bouncers to guard the entrance, and he quietly settled himself on the stool next to his superior, his heart clenching in sympathy. The bartender gave him a semi suspicious glare, but when Edward indicated he was not there to drink, the man shrugged and continued about his business. Edward knew how close Mustang had been to Hughes, had seen it in the little nuances in their interactions and the gleam in their eyes. It was similar to the strength of his bond with Alphonse, and Edward knew that had he not been able to bind Alphonse’s soul—if his younger brother had died—there would be a hole inside him too large and ragged to ever heal.

Now in closer proximity to the older man, Edward could hear the quiet, muffled sobs that wracked his lean frame even as he struggled to suppress his rather public breakdown. Gold eyes swiftly swept the bar’s interior, taking note of the particularly low number of patrons. After satisfying himself that no one inside besides the two of them was apparently military, he returned his attention to his commanding officer. It was difficult for Edward reconcile the downtrodden man slumped beside him as the same cocksure colonel who infuriated him on a daily basis when he was not out on a mission. The cool, self-assured mask was gone, obliterated in the wake of Hughes’s death and laying bare the wild tempest of emotion that surged and roiled within. It startled the blond to truly realize that Mustang was more than just a soldier who lived and breathed the rules and regulations of the army—he understood on some level that the man most likely had a social life outside of the workplace, but to see the devastating results of the abrupt end of a close relationship made him less distant and infinitely more—human.

Edward felt for the man, he truly did, but even so he had no idea how to reach out. Offering comfort or praise had never been his forte; he was more a man of action rather than words. He was sure that if he were in Mustang’s position, he would not want the public to witness his cracked façade. And so he reached out, gently shaking the man on the shoulder.   “Oi,” he said quietly, his voice more gentle than any other time he had addressed his superior officer. “Let’s get you home.”

The colonel froze at Edward’s touch, but slowly relaxed under his nonaggressive touch. “Maes?” His heartbreakingly hopeful voice drifted up, hoarse and muffled through his arms and clothing, causing Edward’s chest to clench ever more painfully.

“It’s me, bastard. You should be at home if you’re going to cry. No reason for everyone to see you sobbing like a girl,” he said gruffly to mask his own roiling feelings. The man simply groaned in reply. Edward waved the bartender over, indicating he wanted the bill. The total made the blond balk slightly, and he stared incredulously at his commanding officer. “How the hell did you drink this much?” he asked, looking at the number multiplied by the price of each glass. Mustang remained inert and silent against the tabletop, so the younger Alchemist rooted around the hanging jacket pockets until he came up with the colonel’s billfold. He fished out the correct amount of bills, stuffed the wallet into his own pocket for safekeeping, snagged the officer’s jacket off the back of the chair, and grabbed Mustang’s arm with his automail hand. “We’re outta here, Mustang. Come on.” He pulled, and Mustang complied with no resistance, sliding off the barstool and stumbling. Edward maneuvered the man so that the colonel’s left arm was slung over his shoulders as they wobbled their way out of the bar. Mustang leaned heavily on the younger man, head hanging and not watching at all where he was going.

After a little prodding, Edward received the colonel’s mumbled address. The place was not too far away—normally a brisk five-minute walk from their current location—but at the pace they were going it took them fifteen sluggish minutes with frequent staggering and swaying that on a regular day would have sorely tried Edward’s patience. Considering the reason behind both his and Mustang’s emotional turmoil, however, the young Alchemist was more than willing to use the slow walk to carefully reconsider his views of the disheartened man lurching alongside him. Once they had stepped out of the bar into the chill night air, Edward had attempted to get the colonel’s jacket back on, but as the man could barely stand on his own, Mustang was resigned to wearing the outerwear with one sleeve on his arm and the rest hanging down his back.

“You’re such a mother hen, Hughes,” Mustang complained without heat. “You already know my address, so why’d you ask?”

Edward shot the colonel a look that was one part annoyance, one part guilt, one part anguish, and one part sympathy. “I’m not Hughes-Chuusa,” Edward refuted quietly. “I’m Ed.”

“Oh,” the older Alchemist drawled, drawing out the single syllable as though just realizing something wondrously important as the hand slung over Edward’s shoulder flapped uselessly, “Hagaren, why are you here and not Hughes? He’s the one that usually gets me back home when I’ve been out drinking.”

The younger Alchemist’s heart squeezed again, and he did not reply. His tongue, jaw, and lips felt leaden and refused to budge, to confess that he was the cause of the lieutenant colonel’s death. That and the fact that Mustang seemed to be _hallucinating_ of all things, kept him from speaking. He figured the best thing he could do for the distraught man was to get him home as quickly as possible—preferably in his bed with a lined waste basket, two tablets of painkillers, and a large glass of water at the bedside. The pair continued on in silence, Mustang shambling forward with Edward’s help.

“I’m sorry,” Mustang blurted suddenly, breaking the quiet between them about halfway to his home and startling Edward from his dreary thoughts.

Gold eyes glanced warily at the man at his side. “What for?” he asked, baffled. At the moment his own grief had been superseded by the task of getting Mustang off the streets and into his home, in one piece, and hopefully without any unnecessary and unwanted revisits from the contents of the man’s stomach en route. As it was, the stench of alcohol on the colonel’s breath was enough to make Edward gag.

“I’m drunk,” the colonel stated plainly, barely lifting his head, “and I’m crying.” He swiped his face with his free right arm, leaving streaks of moisture in the coarse fabric of his jacket sleeve as Edward silently waited on tenterhooks as he continued to half-walk, half-drag the man to his home. “It’s like old times, isn’t it, Hughes?” he burbled, a bitter chuckle bubbling up from this throat. “Ishval totally fucked us over. But you…” He listed to the side, dragging Edward with him, and it was only due to a monumental effort on the part of the younger man that the pair of them did not end up sprawled across the sidewalk. “You had Gracia the entire time, waiting for you to return, you lucky sonofabitch. You were always there to help me pick up the pieces of myself that I dropped after Ishval. But it’s funny Hughes, because this time, you’re the biggest fucking missing piece of the lot, you miserable fucking bastard.”

Edward was quite sure that had Mustang been sober, he would have never spoken as freely as he did now, in both content and color. While part of him tried to avoid listening to the drunken man’s rambling as common courtesy, the other part of him was carefully piecing together a revised idea of who he thought Roy Mustang was with new information he was presented with. The resulting image was not nearly as fury inducing as Mustang once was, for now there was truly dimension and depth to the man and not simply the shallow military man with the infuriating smirk. _It’s interesting to note,_ thought Edward, _that despite the volume of alcohol he’s imbibed, he seems to have still retained his ability to enunciate properly. How odd. And he swears like crazy, too—as though the filter in his brain’s shut off._

“I do hate you, you know, Hughes,” Mustang continued conversationally, tilting his ducked head towards Edward but not looking up. “You just _had_ to go and fucking die on me. And you didn’t even tell me what the hell you called me for right before you fucking snuffed it.” He swiped his sleeve against his face again, and the younger man realized that while Mustang had no longer been sobbing quietly, tears continued to leave wet trails down the man’s cheeks. “You broke your promise. How are you supposed to support my bid to become the Führer unobtrusively from beneath if you’ve surpassed me in rank? Fucking Brigadier General,” he grumbled. There was a long pause in Mustang’s soliloquy before he blurted out, “I hope you at least stabbed the fucker in the eye,” the colonel hissed with more than a touch of vindictiveness in his tone before his relatively congenial mood collapsed.

“Why’d you have to die?” he sighed, leaning even more on Edward as his voice cracked from his emotional distress. “Who am I going to joke around with, get annoyed at when Elysia’s pictures are shoved in my face, confide in when the pressure gets to be too much?” They were coming onto the colonel’s street, and in the dim streetlights, Edward could make out the front door of the man’s townhouse. The blond heaved a sigh of relief and continued to herd his rambling commander towards his home, eager to make an escape before the man had a complete meltdown. He somehow got the feeling the man would be inordinately upset if Edward had been present to see it, yet he was genuinely worried for the man if he believed that he was conversing with a still alive Hughes.

Mustang rubbed a gloved hand against his face but quickly snatched it away due to the coarse ignition cloth material. His chest hitched, and Edward inwardly began to panic. He glanced desperately at the door to Mustang’s townhouse, a mere twenty yards away at this point. _Come on, Mustang,_ he thought urgently, _move your ass faster!_

The colonel shuddered, then cursed bitterly, “God fucking _damn_ it, Hughes!”

Edward eyed him warily as they finally trudged up the front steps of the man’s home. “Keys?” he prompted quietly. When his only reply was a muttered, “Fuck off, Hughes, you have your own,” and a series of repressed quivers that rocked the man’s frame, the blond gingerly searched the man’s pockets, finally fishing out his house key from his pants pocket. He unlocked the door and maneuvered the man inside, groping blindly for the light switch with his free hand, the other supporting his tottering commander. Finally the entryway light flicked on, and Mustang hissed at the sudden brightness as Edward dropped the keys on the entryway table.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swore heartily, shielding his eyes with his free arm.

“Home sweet home, huh?” Edward murmured sarcastically as he locked the door, earning him a glare from his superior. He briefly debated getting Mustang to take his boots off in the hallway, but ultimately decided against it. The colonel would probably sit on the floor all night if the blond let him. No, better to get him upstairs and into his bed.

“Shut up,” the older man retorted with a scowl.

The blond blithely ignored it—he was used to it—and steered Mustang passed the rather empty living room with the single threadbare couch and scuffed coffee table, and up the stairs to the man’s bedroom. Opening the door, the pair made their way to the bed; the glow of streetlights through the window gave enough light to make out the furniture. The colonel flopped onto the mattress with a groan, face down with his legs handing off the bed. The younger Alchemist stared, unimpressed, at his commanding officer. “Where do you keep the aspirin?” he asked as he first took off the pyrotex gloves of his limp hands and helped the colonel shuck his boots.

Mustang, having rolled over and sat up, tugged inelegantly at one booted foot, apparently having missed the question entirely. He tugged at his boot, and the force of his efforts caused him to flop ineffectually onto his side, foot still grasped in his hands. “Why won’t it come off?” he complained.

Edward, having already taken off the footwear from Mustang’s other foot, grunted, “You need to unlace it first, idiot,” before he proceeded to do just that as the colonel unfurled onto his back. The boot came off easily and the younger Alchemist helped Mustang shed his half-on coat before leaving him lying on the covers. “Where’s the aspirin?” he repeated, emptying the man’s pants pockets of his State Alchemy pocket watch. The man’s wallet, which Edward had stowed on his person, was returned and set on the nightstand with the watch and gloves.

“Bathroom, behind the mirror,” the elder Alchemist said, eyes staring unfocused at the ceiling.

The younger Alchemist quickly made his way downstairs to grab a glass from the kitchen. He returned upstairs, filled the glass with water in the bathroom, and easily found the bottle of aspirin tablets. He also flipped open the lid of the toilet as a precaution, for he knew it would see some use this night. He washed his hands before returning to Mustang’s bedside with the medicine, but instead of giving it to the man, he set the water and pills on the nightstand. He fetched a lined wastebasket from the second bedroom’s bathroom—which thankfully had no waste inside—and strategically set it by the bed as backup for later.

 _Perfect fucking timing,_ he thought morosely as Mustang’s face twisted uncomfortably and he rolled off the bed and dashed drunkenly for the bathroom. The sound of the colonel retching in the bathroom, along with the acrid smell of bile mixed with alcohol drifted towards him, and it had Edward violently suppressing his own gag reflex as his body fought to heave in sympathy. Swallowing back the burn in his throat, he stepped into the bathroom, observing his commanding officer hugging the porcelain bowl miserably. He breathed as lightly as possible to keep from upsetting his already roiling stomach and grabbed a towel, dampening it in the sink and offering it to the moaning man half-sprawled on the tile floor. “Here,” he said quietly.

Mustang took the proffered towel, but instead of wiping his chin of bile, he clenched it convulsively and began to sob. “Hughes…” he gasped, before a high, keening wail escaped from his throat. The sound tore viciously at Edward’s heartstrings, for it was full of unspeakable heartbreak and loss. The colonel released his hold on the toilet, curling both arms around his bent knees and rocking himself with his back against the bathtub as he released his grief.

 _What do I do now?_ Edward thought desperately as he watched Roy Mustang, the colonel he reported to who lived to push his buttons, the legendary Flame Alchemist, the man that he had unconsciously begun to look up to, fall apart before his eyes. His mind flashed back to three years ago, when the colonel had found him sitting alone on the roof of Central Command in the freezing early spring rains. While the situation was entirely different and their roles were switched, Edward recalled how comforting it had felt to be held, to hear words of affirmation. He knew he owed this man so much, and so while he was by nature not a touchy-feely person, if he could offer even a sliver of comfort and relief for the colonel, he would more that gladly provide. If, once Mustang was back to his normal lucid self, the colonel made any sort of comment about the professional boundaries that had been crossed by Edward, all the younger Alchemist had to say was that he was simply a fellow human being trying to provide support and solidarity, with a healthy dose of sympathy—a direct reference to that rainy night when he had nearly lost all faith in his ability to restore Alphonse to his body.

And so that was how Edward found himself sitting on the floor next to Mustang, and arm slung around the man’s shoulder as his commanding officer wept on his after he had cleaned the man’s face with another damp towel. He rocked the two of them gently, quietly shedding tears of his own as he shared in Mustang’s anguish, his hold awkward due to the differences in their sizes. The younger Alchemist had no idea how long they sat in the bathroom, but eventually Mustang’s pent up sorrow seemed to have bled off for the moment, leaving the man bone weary. Edward gently released the man and grabbed two fresh towels and dampened both—one for himself as he wiped his face clean of tears and mucus, and the other for Mustang to do the same. Once they had both cleaned themselves off, the blond wordlessly helped the colonel into his bed, tucking him in after feeding him the aspirin and forcing him to drink half of the glass of water.

Mustang, red-eyed and cherry-nosed, sniffled as his dark eyes caught Edward’s golden ones. “Hagaren,” he whispered, his throat rough and abused from his violent bout of grief. “I’m sor—”

“Don’t,” the younger Alchemist cut in, emphasizing his directive with a shake of his head. Tears welled up unbidden in his own eyes and his breath caught as he replied, “You needed to get it off your chest. Don’t ever apologize for grieving for a relationship like that.” The guilt of Hughes’ death pressed heavily on his chest, brought into focus once more now that Mustang was safely ensconced in his bed. He turned his head to the side, shielding his eyes from the colonel as he clenched his hands into fists. _I’m so sorry, Mustang, gods I’m so sorry I stole your best friend…!_

“Ed?” Mustang’s voice, scratchy and rough though it was, conveyed deep concern—particularly when he switched from using his abbreviated title to his name.

Edward could not afford to look at the man, now that his guilt clouded all thought in his mind. He wanted to flee, to avoid having to face one of the incidental results of his responsibility regarding Hughes’ death, yet his feet refused to budge. Instead all he could do was clench his jaw and squeeze his eyes shut, valiantly trying to suppress the sobs that attempted to escape the prison of his chest. _I just finished crying, damn it! Why do I still want to cry?_ he mentally raged at himself.

He started when hands grasped both his shoulders, and his head snapped up to find Mustang now stood unsteadily before him, using him as a crutch as he watched with worried eyes. “Are you okay, Ed?”

It was too much to stare into his commanding officer’s face, and so the younger man ducked his head. “Damn it, bastard,” he whispered with an ironic chuckle as tears squeezed past his shut eyelids and trailed down his cheeks. “You’re _drunk_ , Mustang, and you’re _still_ trying to care for me?”

Mustang blinked fuzzily, but remained where he was. “Just because I’m drunk does not mean I’m an insensitive clod,” he countered, swaying slightly.

Edward forced the man to sit down on the bed, but even then the colonel kept his hold on the younger man’s shoulders. On some level he knew he should feel outraged at the unfairness of the height issue, but he was too emotionally exhausted to care. “You’ll be okay by yourself?” he asked, sidestepping Mustang’s concern. “I need to get back to Alphonse.”

The colonel took a moment to process the information before he asked, “What time is it?”

The non sequitur baffled Edward, but he dutifully pulled his own watch from his pocket and checked. “Twenty-one nineteen,” he read.

Mustang rubbed his face tiredly. “Call Hawkeye-Chuui and have her pick up Alphonse from the dorms. Both of you can stay here tonight.”

Edward started. “What? No, that’s not necessary! I can walk back to the dorm easily on my own.”

“I don’t want you walking back at this hour Ed, regardless of the fact that I know you can take care of yourself.” The elder Alchemist sighed. “Please, if nothing else than for my own peace of mind.”

The younger Alchemist briefly considered before he relented. “Fine. I’ll have Hawkeye-Chuui take me back, but I’m staying in the dorms tonight. Where’s your phone?”

“Downstairs in the kitchen,” Mustang replied, massaging his temples. No doubt his hangover had already begun.

Edward bullied the man back into bed before he descended the stairs, quickly making his call and returning to the colonel’s bedside. “How should I lock your door when I leave?”

Mustang gestured with a limp arm to the dresser by the door. “Spare keys in the top drawer,” he said. “Take two.”

The blond paused, one gleaming silver key in his hand. “Why?” he asked, twisting to stare at the man.

The colonel half-grinned at his subordinate. “One for you, and one for Alphonse, if you ever need that spare room,” he replied simply.

For the millionth time that evening Edward’s heart clenched, but this time it was accompanied by a comforting warmth of gratitude instead of the painful scorch of guilt as he took a second key. “Hawkeye-Chuui should be here soon,” he said, uncomfortable with the as-blatant-as-it-would-ever-get affection from the colonel. Seeking to escape he continued, “I’ll lock the door on my way out.”

“Ed.” The blond froze at the bedroom threshold, body tense without rational cause as he waited for Mustang to finish his thought. “Thank you.” The quietly spoken acknowledgement spoke more than the two simple words could ever truly convey, but Edward easily understood the underlying sentiments. “Just remember,” the colonel continued, “Hughes’ death was not your fault.”

Edward had begun to relax with the man’s murmured appreciation but had stiffened with his last words. How had he known that the very thought preyed on his mind, ate away at his psyche until it had left nothing more than a tattered hole in his chest? The tears swelled, unbidden, once more in his eyes. “Of course it was,” he said thickly, swallowing his tears.

There was a sigh from the bed. “Ed, come here.” The gentle command had the youth standing before the bed before his mind registered the fact. Mustang had sat up once more and carefully maneuvered the boy onto the bed beside him. Grasping both shoulders once more, Mustang stared Edward in the eyes. “Maes _chose_ to help you. His actions are none but his own responsibility. He knew the risks of investigating the Philosopher’s Stone before he decided to help. Don’t blame yourself for something you had absolutely no control over.” His breath hitched as he spoke, but his words were steady and rung with conviction.

Intellectually, Edward knew the colonel was correct, that Hughes’ death had been no one’s fault but his own, but his heart continued to weep. “I know,” he finally murmured in reply as his head dipped, “but it still hurts.”

He was enfolded into the colonel’s embrace, and Edward tentatively returned it. “And it will for a while yet. But it’ll get better. I promise.”

Nothing was said for several minutes after that, each savoring the simple comfort the other offered. Finally Edward murmured, “I really should go. Hawkeye-Chuui is probably already outside.”

The two released each other and Mustang scooted himself back under the covers. “Remember what I said, Ed.”

“I will,” the blond replied. With a teasing grin he said, “Good night, bastard.”

A smirk answered his own. “Go away, brat.”

Edward locked the front door and slid into the back seat of the idling car, thanking Hawkeye for the inconvenience.

She smiled gently at her youngest coworker. “How is he?” she asked.

A small smile graced his lips. “He’ll be fine.” His eyes caught hers in the rearview mirror as she pulled out into the street. “He has all of us to help him back on his feet.”

The lieutenant’s sad hazel eyes softened. “We’re a team. We help each other.” And Edward could not agree more.

\---

Chuusa – Lieutenant Colonel

Hagaren – Roy’s abbreviation of Edward’s full title, “Hagane no Renkinjutsushi” – Fullmetal Alchemist

Chuui – First Lieutenant

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: So… yeah. I wasn’t expecting something quite this long, nor this… emotional. Can’t really say what spurred this particular fic, but I’m glad it’s done and man, am I on a roll! Obviously, if you can’t tell, I’m a sucker for parental Roy-Ed, though this time their roles were sort of reversed. This fic made direct references to my other fic “Miniature Adults”, so if you did not understand some aspects of this story, take a peek at that fic. I hope I captured their characters well, but took some liberties with regards to Roy being drunk. My apologies for the semi-shabby ending. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Completed: 17.02.2014


End file.
